Someone You Once Knew
by Soleil2
Summary: AU. What would have happened if Mac had never been permanently assigned?
1. 1

Someone You Once Knew

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Nor am I making any money from them.

AN: I did say never say never, didn't I? So here I go again.

Summary: AU. Okay, so I realize that this has been done before, the "what if" version of their lives. Heck, even the show did it. So this is mine. And it takes some explaining. Remember how in the first episode with Mac, she was supposed to be on loan? Well, this story takes that route. After the trial with her uncle, she left, never to return. 

All of the episodes on JAG are fair game. Just take out the shippery bits or the parts that involve her specifically. (IE Paraguay.) Everything else happened to Harm. And Bud and Harriet. The backgrounds are essentially the same as the show made them.

Part 1

He smiled and she thought of the desert. The ocean was only yards from her office and storm was rolling in off the sea. The wind chimes outside her front door were probably ringing in the wind and the beachgoers were definitely packing up their blankets. But all she could see was a bright yellow sun in a sky so dry it was white and the red desert floor. She had known he was coming, her CO had told her that Washington was going to send someone to help out while she was finishing her appeal. She had even known that it would be him, but it was still a shock to see Harmon Rabb after all these years.

Sarah Mackenzie smiled up at him and stepped back from her door. "Nice to see you again. It's been a while." The blinds on her door clinked together as she shut it behind him. Her hand lingered on the doorknob and she wondered if she should have left it open. He was a noticeable presence in her office, standing amid the boxes and files. She tapped the doorknob and let her hand fall to her side. "Please," she gestured to a chair, skirting around the clutter, "sit down. I'm sorry about the mess. I'm in the middle of this appeal and there's-" She sighed and took a deep breath. "There's the fact that I'm babbling, too. How was your flight?"

He set his briefcase down and laid his winter coat across his lap. She wanted to sigh again. He looked like he thought he had just landed in Wonderland. "It was fine, thanks." He paused, then smiled. "I wasn't sure if you'd remember me."

She wanted to tell him that it would have been almost impossible to forget his face. She wanted to tell him that she couldn't have forgotten his smile. And even if she could have, the newspaper articles would have made it impossible. But that would have sounded like she had been waiting for the winds to change direction and for him to drift into her life on their backs. It was only an accident that they were seeing each other again. And she hadn't been waiting for him, so she said, "You save my uncle. I wouldn't forget that."

He leaned back in his chair and hooked his ankle over his knee. "How is he?"

She shrugged and slipped into her chair, staring at her calendar to give herself time. She picked up her pen and crossed off the day's date. "In Leavenworth." She glanced up at him. "I'm sort of surprised you remembered me," she said, emphasizing the "you."

He started and looked up at her. He wanted to tell her that she looked too much like Diane for him to forget her. That it had been comforting over the years to know that somewhere in the world people would know what Diane had looked like, even if they just thought they were only seeing at Sarah Mackenzie. "You pulled a gun on me."

She smiled at him, a full smile that went beyond politeness. "Oh, come now, Commander, I couldn't have been the only person to do that."

He laughed and she shrugged. "I'm sorry my CO couldn't be here to welcome you. There was an administrative meeting with the local counties' District Attorneys. Jurisdiction issues." She straightened in her seat. "I can show you your office or get someone to show you the base, if you'd like." She glanced out the window. "Although it looks like it's going to rain any second now." She bit her lower lip and swallowed the third sigh that wanted to well up from her chest. "I'll show you your office," she said decisively.

"Great." He stood, gathering his coat and briefcase. "Guess I won't be needing this for a while," he held up his coat. "Back home, it's in the low thirties and snowing."

"Welcome to Florida," she said as she pulled her door open. "Your office is just down the hall." Walking ahead of him, she pushed open another door.

He leaned over her shoulder, brushing his arm against hers, and studied the office. The desk was utilitarian, early government style, and the chairs were covered in an ugly vinyl. He tried not to think about his wooden desk and decorated office in D.C.

"It's not much," she offered.

"No," he agreed. He glanced down at her and wondered if Diane would have looked the same if she had had the benefit of years.

"I should get back to work." She hitched a shoulder and turned on her heel. "I'm afraid, Commander - "

"Harm," he broke in.

"Harm, while we didn't decorate the office, we did stock it with plenty of files." She smiled apologetically. "Please let me know if you need anything."

"Colonel?" he called, still surveying his gray office.

"Mac," she said, looking over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"Maybe you could show me around the base later?"

"There's not much to see." She shrugged.

"How about around town?"

She bit her lower lip and nodded. "Okay," she said. "Just let me…" Brushing at her bangs, she looked at her watch. "Sounds like fun. I should really get back to work, though." She tilted her head in the direction of her office. "Welcome aboard," she said softly, but he heard anyway, and said, "Thanks."


	2. 2

Pt. 2

The restaurant where she wanted to eat was on the water. Plastic tables and chairs were crowded onto a deck overlooking the bay. She told him that the windows were always open in the summer and the breeze from the ocean and the now-still fans kept the room cool. Boaters wandered in from the marina and planted themselves at the bar. The clouds from the afternoon's rain were gone, drifting back to the ocean as quickly as they had rolled in, leaving the night sky clear and filled with stars.

"Try the conch fritters," she suggested over the top of her menu.

"Conch fritters?" he echoed skeptically.

"This place is famous for them," she said. "Really, they're very good." She put down her menu and cupped her chin in her hand.

"Do you know what you're having already?" he asked, still looking at his menu.

"Please," she waved a hand, "I'm in here so often I'm surprised the waiter doesn't know what I want already."

"Not much of a cook?"

She shrugged and ran her thumb over the corner of her placemat, pasting the edges to the table with the condensation from her glass. "I'm okay, I guess." She smiled a little. "I haven't poisoned anyone with it yet. But it's such a hassle to cook for just one person."

"I kind of like it." He put his menu down, too, and glanced around the restaurant. A crowd was building by the bar and he could here the muffled voices of sports announcers. He turned his attention back to her and watched as she continued to spread water on to her placemat. He raised an eyebrow and she smiled sheepishly, tucking her hand into her lap.

"Cooking in general or cooking for one?" She was being nosy and she wanted to kick herself. It wasn't a date, she told herself. She had been repeating it in her head all night. It wasn't a date. She was just showing him around. He probably had a girlfriend in Washington. And it was too soon for her to date again. But none of that mattered, since it wasn't a date.

"Cooking in general," he answered and she decided it was time to steer the conversation in another direction, before it got too personal and she embarrassed herself and him. She started rambling about the office, giving him tips on the types of cases and the personnel. She told him about the judges and their quirks and predilections. And over dinner, she talked about her appeal before asking him about some of his more publicized cases. She could feel her muscles loosening as they talked about work and began to enjoy the evening.

"God, this is so nice." He stretched his arms as they stepped out of the restaurant and onto the crowded thoroughfare. "Seriously, do you know how cold it is back home?"

"Pretty cold?" she guessed.

"Do you ever get used to this?" he asked as they strolled towards his car. He listened to the waves crash and turned to lean on a rail to watch them roll in. The lights from the restaurants and stores glowed behind him and the dark water stretched out before him.

"No," she said on a sigh and leaned against the railing. "It's fantastic down here. And I hate the cold."

He eased a hip on to the railing and turned his attention to the crowd. She watched as he watched the people wander by and she wondered if he thought about them the same way she did. She had been watching people for years, measuring her faults against theirs. She was afraid that one day she would look like one of those hard, worn women. Women who had lived too hard in too short a period of time. Whenever she saw them in the courtrooms or on the streets, she always thanked Uncle Matt for saving her when he did and not leaving her to wear away until she disappeared entirely.

He glanced down at her. "Well, that makes sense."

"What does?" His voice startled her.

"That you don't like the cold. If you grew up in Arizona, it makes sense."

"Oh," she shrugged. "I moved all over the place as a kid. My father was a Marine, too."

"Runs in the family? Me too," he added.

"I guess." She shrugged again and pushed away from the railing. She rubbed her hands down her arms and studied the tide of people on the street as it ebbed and flowed around her.

"Where is he now? Is he still in the Marines?"

"He died a few years ago." She started to wander down the boardwalk, slowly so he could catch up, but quick enough to leave the conversation behind.

"I'm sorry," he said as jogged to her side.

"I'm…" Not, she wanted to say. He was a lousy person and a worse father, she wanted to tell him. I didn't go to his funeral, she wanted to say. "Thank you," she said in a deep breath.

"I know what it feels like," he told her after a minute had passed.

"I'm sorry," she said and meant it. "We should go. It's getting late and you must be exhausted."

"I've felt worse." His hand slid around her elbow as he guided her out of the path of a bicyclist.

"I'm getting tired," she said. "I'm sorry, we've been so busy at work and…" she trailed off.

"Oh," he said. "Okay. I'll get you home."

At her front door, she reached out catch his sleeve. "I had a nice time tonight."

"Me, too." He wanted to touch her hair, so he curled his fingers around his car keys instead.

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Bright and early." He smiled and she wanted kiss him.

He turned to jog down her steps and she watched as he backed out of her driveway and drove down the street. It wasn't a date, she repeated. People like him don't date people like you. She sighed and let herself into her quiet little house. Shutting the front door on the night sounds and the empty street.


	3. 3

Pt. 3

He stood in her doorway, leaning against the frame and tapping a file on his palm, while she talked on the phone. She glanced up at him and held up a finger, before brushing her bangs offer her forehead and cradling her head in her hand. Her shoulders rose and fell beneath her blouse as she talked quietly into the phone. Her murmurs, indistinct patterns of sound, were muffled and he could only hear parts of words as she focused on her desk blotter. It was odd to see Diane's face, older and unhappy, but not to hear her voice or see her smile. He tapped the file a little harder as he tried to blink away Diane.

He focused on the top of her head as her voice rose sharply. "No," she said. "Don't call me later. I'm trying to work." She shook her head and closed her eyes briefly before looking up at him and smiling apologetically. Sighing, she motioned to a chair in front of her desk. "Good-bye. No. Please stop calling me. Good-bye." She dropped the phone into the cradle and turned to him. "I'm sorry," she breathed.

"Pleasant call?" He raised an eyebrow and eased into the chair.

"No." She drew the word out. Rubbing her hand over her forehead, she let out a long breath. "An ex. He won't go away."

He nodded. "I have a few of those myself." His gaze slipped past her and he focused on the open window behind her. The late afternoon breeze sifted through the screen and ruffled papers on her desk. He could hear the sounds of the base. Lemon yellow sunlight formed squares on the floor and settled on the top of her head and he had to remind himself to concentrate on her voice.

"Ex-husbands?" She smiled a little as she looked up at him.

"Uh, no," he spread his hands, "none of those."

"You can have one of mine, if you'd like," she offered. She tugged on the sleeves of her uniform and sat up.

"You have more than one?" he asked, surprised.

She held up two fingers and nodded. "Two. Long stories."

"I've got time," he said and leaned back in his chair.

She nodded at the manila folder in his hand and said, "You've got a case." She held out her hand and waggled her fingers. "Gimme."

He handed it over. "It's not really the case that's the problem. I think it's my client. He, uh, mentioned your name."

"Oh," she sighed the word. "This guy. Yeah, he's an – interesting client." She laid the file on her desk. "Sorry, I don't have any tips."

"So it's not just me?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Fortunately, the offer is good. Now I just have to convince him of that."

She smiled and massaged her temples. "Good luck with that."

"You look tired," he noticed. Her eyes had dark circles under them and the muscles in her jaw were clenched. She rubbed a hand over the back of her neck, letting her eyes slide shut briefly.

Opening them, she waved a hand at the piles of paper on her desk. "It's this appeal," she said.

He shook his head. "No, it's more than that." He took his folder off her desk and sat back in his chair. When she didn't say anything, he reminded himself that he didn't know her, that he wasn't going to be in Florida long enough to get know her. But that couldn't stop him from asking, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"It's," she paused, "personal. No offense."

"Diane," he began, then stopped. His eyes widened and then closed. He scrubbed a hand over his face, wondering how he could have done that. And part of him wondered why he didn't make that mistake sooner. "Mac, I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Was that her name?" she asked softly.

"Yeah," he said quietly. He opened his eyes and stared at the file on his lap, at the floor. Anywhere but her unfamiliar familiar face. "I'm really sorry. I just - " He stopped, unsure of how to continue.

"I must really look like her?" she said.

"You have no idea." He looked up at her. "You really do." He twisted watch around to see its face, his fingers brushing over his father's bracelet in the process. He inhaled sharply and let the breath out slowly.

"How did she – is she still alive?"

"No." He stood up and waved the file. "I should get back to work."

She rose, too. She reached out, then pulled her hand back and went to get a book from her shelf. "I – yeah, I should too." She glanced out the window as a car drove past; it's tires crunched over the asphalt and the sound nearly rolled over her next sentence. "I'm sorry." She looked back at him.

"Me, too." He nodded down the hall. "I've got to get back."

"I know. Would you mind shutting the door behind you?"

In his office, he shut his door and leaned against the wooden frame. He bumped his head on the doorjamb and cursed himself. She wasn't Diane. Diane was gone. No one knew that better than him. His mind wandered back to the sunny office down the hall and he wondered how he'd be able to convince himself of that when he had to work with her ghost every day.


	4. 4

Pt 4

The breeze was damp and a little cold and carried the smell of the ocean on its back. Wind chimes on her front porch clinked against each other and a porch swing swayed as the wind brushed by them. The light was just beginning to fade on the horizon and the sounds of the end of the day circled around him as he stood on her porch. Car doors slammed and engines quieted; front doors and garage doors opened and closed.

He adjusted a bag of Chinese food on his hip and knocked on her front door, the wood still warm under his hand. The lights weren't on and he wondered, for a moment, if he had beaten her home. Then he saw her jeep and heard her muffled shuffling sounds through the door.

She pulled the door open and leaned against it. "Harm," she sounded surprised to see him.

He held up the food and shook it a little. "Dinner, remember? You promised to give me the inside scoop on the judges?"

She smoothed her hair back from her face and opened the door wider. "Yeah, come on in." She glanced over her shoulder. "Just watch your step. I was trying to straighten up but…" she trailed off and raised her arms, letting them fall to her sides. There were boxes of books lying on the floor and sitting on chairs.

"What's all this?" He gestured to the piles.

"Bar review." She nodded at some of the boxes. She waved at another pile. "John – ex-husband number two – dropped them off over the weekend. He's moving and found them while packing." She shrugged. "I haven't gotten around to putting them away yet."

He followed her as she cleared a path to the kitchen at the back of the house. Through the window, he could see glimpses of the ocean between houses and fences. "Nice view," he commented, remembering the alley way outside his apartment window in Washington, then asked, "Bar review?"

She shrugged again and pulled dishes out of a cabinet. "Yep." She smiled sheepishly. "I'm taking the Florida bar in July. Just in case." Taking out glasses, she said, "I don't have much to offer in the way of drinks. Water or soda, that's about it."

"Water's fine. Just in case of what?"

"Oh, you know, in case I decide I want to stay." She set the table in slow, easy movements. Glass thumped dully on wood and silverware chimed as she stretched across the tabletop.

"Can I do anything to help?" he asked, trying to not stare at her back as the fabric of her shirt slid up and down.

"There's water in the fridge." She gestured with her elbow.

"Don't you want to move to a bigger base? Handle something bigger?" Water sparkled in the last of the sunlight and shadows were beginning to slip into the room.

"Bigger than DDO's or drunken disorderlies?" She smiled over her shoulder at him and tucked her hair behind her ears. She reached around him to flip on the light switch and tried not to think about how he was the first man in her house since John left. How the house seemed to shrink around them in the dark and how the light made the kitchen seem like an island. She slid into her seat and cupped her face in her hands. Sighing a little, she said, "Sometimes I do. I did more before I transferred here. I made the – mistake – of commenting on the nature of the cases I'd been working on."

"Uh-oh." He pulled a carton out of the bag and opened it. Finding chicken, he handed it to her. "What happened?"

"He was," she cleared her throat a little, "a little strident and pointed out, loudly I might add, that everything counts and that there wasn't anything too small."

"Ouch," he winced dramatically.

"All things considered," she passed him the carton of rice, "he was rather decent about it."

"So that was it? You stopped trying?"

She shrugged. "Yes and no." Relaxing against her chair, she stared out the window. Her eyes focused on the patch of darkening ocean and she sucked in a deep breath. "I have some things," she said quietly, "that I'm not real proud of." She shifted on her chair and stared at her plate. "Anyway, this is probably it for me."

"Mac, I'm sorry." He put down his fork. "I didn't meant to-"

She waved him before he could finish and forced the corners of her mouth to angle upwards. "It's okay."

"If you ever want to talk," he started.

"Thanks." She pushed a piece of chicken around her plate with her fork. "So," she said on a deep breath, "what about you? Did you ever think about doing something else?"

He looked up at the night sky and saw a plane's lights trailing across it. He tapped a finger on his glass and wiped the condensation on his napkin. "I did. Once. It didn't work out the way I wanted."

She raised her glass. "I know that feeling." Folding her napkin in her lap, she changed the subject. "So about the judges…"

He nodded and let the conversation slip away. He tried not to notice that she wouldn't quite meet his eye. And he tried not to notice that it bothered him – just a little.


	5. 5

A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay in posting this part. Life has been incredibly hectic and this story was the victim. Sorry. Thank you for all your reviews and kind words.

Pt 5

"This court finds that the evidence is of sufficient weight and credibility to go to court martial. Counsel, thank you for your time. Guards, take the defendant into custody." The judge stood. "Court's adjourned."

Mac sighed and shuffled her papers into a semi-neat pile on the table. "Lieutenant, I'll be in to see you first thing tomorrow morning," she told the young man standing next to her.

The guards snapped cuffs around his wrist and the man swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing above his collar. He nodded as the guard tugged at his elbow. "Yes, ma'am."

She glanced up at Harm when he stopped by her table. "You," she smiled to ease the sting of the words, "it's all your fault that I have to work this Saturday."

"I'll buy you dinner to make up for it." He set his briefcase down on the table and leaned against it.

"Shouldn't I be offering?" She shoved the pile of papers into her briefcase and snapped the lid shut. "Since you won?"

"Haven't won anything yet," he pointed out. "This just means more work for both of us."

She started to say, "True," but a voice behind them interrupted. "Tough break, counselor," it said. Her spine stiffened slightly and she smiled apologetically at Harm. "One minute," she murmured and turned around. "John."

"Sarah," he nodded at her. He stood behind the bar and held the gate open so she could step through. "I was hoping I could speak to you for a second. It won't take long." He glanced at Harm.

She brushed her bangs off her forehead. "Let me introduce you. John Farrow, this is - "

"Harmon Rabb," John preempted.

"Colonel Farrow," Harm said, holding out his hand.

John shook it. "It's just John now."

Her gaze darted between the two men. "I didn't realize you two knew each other."

"Commander Rabb was the prosecutor in my trial," John explained. He shrugged and let go of the gate, keeping Harm on the other side of the bar.

"Oh," she said. She shifted her briefcase from one hand to the other. "Oh," she repeated.

"I have to leave for the airport soon, Sarah." John wrapped his fingers around her elbow and said, "If you'll excuse us." He guided her down the aisle and stopped by the courtroom's double doors. Harm remained by the table, his exit blocked by the couple. He watched John lean closer to Mac and she tilted her head to smile up at him. She laid a hand on his forearm and spoke in a low voice. The words lost shape and distinction as they drifted across the courtroom and Harm could only hear the patterns of syllables.

"I'd feel better if you'd come with me," John said, rubbing his hand over hers. "Just until Chris gets arrested again or disappears."

She inhaled slowly and pulled her fingers free. Letting her breath out in a slow hiss, she said, "I can't, John. You know that."

"Sarah," he started, but stopped when she stepped back and shook her head.

He sighed and nodded, knowing that she wouldn't listen to the rest of his argument. His kissed her on the cheek, his lips lingering for a second. He glanced into the courtroom and saw Harm studying his briefcase. "You be good," he told her.

She sniffled and chuckled a little. She dashed a finger under her eyes. "You too." Dropping her briefcase, she wrapped her arms around his neck. The briefcase fell heavily against their legs and he pulled her closer as she whispered, "I'll miss you," into his shoulder.

He slid his palm over her hair and pressed one more kiss to her head. "Me, too." He dropped his arms. "Bye, Sarah."

"Bye." She tugged her blouse into place and watched him leave the courtroom. When the doors banged shut behind him, she said over her shoulder, "I'm not having a good afternoon."

"About that dinner," Harm walked up behind her, "how about I cook?"

"Sure." She looked up sharply. "Do you have a stove?"

"Nah," he said, placing a hand at her back and ushering her through the doors. "Well, yes, but you're going to let me use yours because it has to be better than mine."

"I am?"

"It was very nice of you to offer," he said.

"I'm known for my generosity."

Sauce bubbled on the stove and steam condensed on the hood. She sat at the counter, watching as he stirred pepper into the pot. The wooden spoon bumped dully against the walls of the pot. The kitchen was quiet and the steady thump of the spoon was the only noise. An open window let in the night air and it sifted through the screens, carrying the scent of the ocean and sand. "The sauce smells good," she inhaled deeply in appreciation. She leaned against the countertop and let her eyes drift shut.

He looked over his shoulder. "Thanks." He gathered up her cutting board and a knife and handed them to her. "Here, make yourself useful. You can cut the bread."

She sighed heavily and said, "If I must, I must." She pulled a baguette out of its bag and measured out a slice of bread. Crumbs spread beneath the loaf as she cut off the end. The kitchen grew still again. "You can ask, you know."

"I didn't want to pry." He turned and leaned back. Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched the knife flash silver as it sawed into the bread.

"It's okay." She shouldered her hair back from her face. A strand caught in her eyelashes and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. "He told me about you, you know. Obviously," she rolled her eyes, "without the name." She tapped a finger against the edge of the knife. "He was my CO... before JAG, in Okinawa."

"Is he - " He started to ask a question, then stopped, unsure of how to phrase it.

"One of the things that I'm not so proud of?" She looked up through her bangs and shrugged. "Yes and no. I wish it hadn't happened the way it did, but he was wonderful to me."

"Then why are you getting a divorce?"

"We're divorced already," she corrected him. She pushed away from the counter and paced to the window. The sun had set long ago and she could see her neighbors' windows glowing yellow against the dark. "I ..." She drew a deep breath and placed her hand on her abdomen, smoothing her thumb over her stomach. "We were married for six years."

"That's a long time," he commented and she nodded, "Yeah." The word trailed out on a sigh. "When we got married, he didn't want children."

"And you did?" he guessed.

"Yes and no," she repeated her earlier comment. She twisted her fingers together and said, smiling a weak smile, "In for a penny."

The walls of the kitchen seemed to press the air out the room. He watched as she stared out the window. He flipped the burner off. "Want to take a walk?"

She nodded and sniffled. He held out his hand and she curled her fingers around his. "Will that be okay?" She gestured to the stove with her other hand.

"Yeah."

The stars were low on the horizon and the moon's light washed over the house and lawns, creating pale shadows and new shapes on the grass. He could hear the waves as they neared the beach. The tide was coming in and the waves were inching higher and higher up the sand, washing away sand castles and holes to China. By morning, the beach would be clean again, swept free of the detritus from the day before. They paused at the edge of the sand and pulled off their shoes.

"When I was seventeen," she began so quietly he had to lean closer to hear her over the sounds of the waves, "I was pretty wild." She shook her hair back from her face. "I married my first husband to escape my dad and … Anyway, we were – we didn't settle down. I got pregnant."

The wind tugged at her hair and she pushed it back with impatient fingers. He remained quiet, unsure of what to say and not sure of how it should be said, so he watched her hair slip through her finger, and wondered how he could have seen Diane in her face. She looked up at him, waiting for him to say something, so he said, "I didn't know you had children."

She shook her head. "I don't." Biting her lip, she said, "Chris, my first husband, got arrested right after I found out I was pregnant. I was just about to graduate from high school, I was alone, and I was an alcoholic. And pregnant." She pulled her hand free from his. "Such a promising future, don't you think?"

"Did you -?" He didn't finish the question, but she answered it, "No. Right after graduation, I was in a really bad car accident. My best friend died, the baby died, and I lived." She stopped walking and curled her toes in the sand. "That's when my uncle came and got me." She waved a hand. "And voila, here I am."

He lowered himself to the sand and wrapped his arms around his knees. "That still doesn't explain the divorce."

"I'm getting to that." She sat down next to him. "After I turned my life around, I kept putting off having a family. Truthfully, I was scared, so I kept making excuses. I needed to put my life back together; I needed to get my career in order. So it didn't matter that John didn't want kids right away. I knew I could talk him into it." She scooped up a handful of sand and let it filter through her fingers. "And then one day, I did it. I convinced him we should have children. And I couldn't. Couldn't get pregnant and when I could, couldn't carry it. It was a whole host of reasons, accident included."

"So he left?" His throat was tight and the words were hard to push out.

"I left him," she said quietly. "I blamed him. If we had tried earlier, we might have caught the problems when they were still fixable." She shrugged. "By the time I calmed down, too many things had been said. There was too much damage to fix and there you have it," she opened her now empty hand.

She stood up and looked out over the sea. A buoy's bell clinked in the distance and a boat's light blinked off the surface of the water. Brushing the sand from her jeans, she said, "We should get back."

"Mac, I –"

"We should get back," she repeated. Her fingers felt cold and she tucked them into her sleeves, pulling the cuffs over them. She couldn't look at him, couldn't imagine what he thought of her now. "Could I take a rain check on dinner?" she asked, studying the hem of her jeans. "I'm suddenly really tired."

She missed his expression, so she would never see his frown. It was gone when she looked up again as he said, "Some other time."

"Some other time," she promised.


	6. 6

Diane was dead. He had been on the pier when the medics had lifted her onto the gurney. And he had watched as the teeth of the zipper caught in the pull tab and the canyon of black plastic narrowed and closed over her pretty face. He had shaded his eyes against the sun as they lowered her casket into the ground and he had looked away when her mother hugged the folded flag to her chest and clutched at her husband's arm for support, her fingers gripping the suit jacket so tightly it would never unwrinkle. He remembered thinking, This was it. Diane was gone and soon his memories would dwindle away, too.

He never thought her ghost would resurface with such a vengeance. He never thought another woman would wear her face, but carry herself so differently. There were times he could reconcile the fact that Lieutenant Colonel Sarah Mackenzie was not Diane Schonke. And there were times, times that staggered him with their weight, when he wanted her to be Diane so badly he hurt. And still, there were times, like now, when he was paralyzed by indecision – unable to decide which woman he needed to let go.

The ticks and the tocks of his travel alarm clock echoed in the apartment, counting down the minutes of his Saturday. The shadows were growing, merging and blending until the corners of the room were soft and indistinct. Once-bright patches of sunlight were orange now and low on the walls. He shifted slightly on the couch and stared out the window, his fingers tracing his father's bracelet, twisting the metal against his skin. Streetlights and houselights were flickering on slowly and the sky was growing dark above his apartment. A star appeared on the cusp of the blue and it was quickly joined by another. His eyes followed the arc of a plane and he wished he was on it, wished he was moving, instead of frozen on a couch in a nearly empty apartment.

The general had called that morning. They were sending a permanent replacement; his time in Florida was coming to an end. In a matter of weeks, he would be back in Washington, surrounded by friends and the trappings of a life he had barely thought about. It wasn't as though he'd forgotten it. He had spoken to Mattie frequently and Alicia had called to check in. But they were thousands of miles away and Mac was only a few ghosts away.

But now, the life he had put on hold was knocking on the door, insistent on being answered, and he was reluctant to acknowledge it. He didn't know if he didn't want to leave because it meant leaving Mac, or if because leaving Mac meant leaving Diane again.

He hooked an ankle over his thigh and laced his fingers over his eyes. He sighed heavily. He needed to call her and he didn't know what to say. His hand dropped onto the couch and hit the cordless phone. He cursed under his breath and shook his hand. Glaring at the phone, he shifted on the couch until his was sitting up. Cradling his head in his hands, he leaned forward until his elbows rested against his knees.

The phone sat beside him, reminding him to call her. To move. He couldn't hide from the world forever. He couldn't stop it from making its presence known.

He picked up the phone and dialed the first three numbers of her phone number. Clicking the off button, he set the phone down again. He needed a plan, a better plan than just calling her and telling her that he had received his orders. Dinner, he could ask her to dinner.

He dialed her number again. Breathing in deeply, he exhaled slowly as the phone rang. When her answering machine didn't pick up, he dialed her cell phone. She answered on the third ring. "Hello?" Static cut across the line and she repeated, "Hello?"

"Mac? It's Harm." He could hear a loud thud in the background and he frowned at the phone.

"Oh, hi," she answered vaguely. "No, thanks I'm fine."

"You are?" he asked.

Her soft exhalation breathed into his ear on a sigh. "I'm sorry. I was talking to someone else. Did you need something, because now isn't really a good time."

"I was calling to see if you wanted to grab a bite to eat."

She sighed again and said, "I would love to, but I can't tonight."

His fingers tightened on the phone and he had to force himself to relax. "Tomorrow maybe?"

"I…" Her voice trailed off as someone shouted near her. "Yeah, tomorrow sounds good." Her voice grew distant and muffled and he heard her say, "No, really, I'm okay."

"Mac, where are you?"

"I'm," she paused, "I'm at the police station."

He sat upright. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she said, but her voice was small. "Chris broke into my house. I had to come down for some paperwork."

"But you're okay?" He asked again.

"A little bruised, but other than that, I'm good."

"I'll be right there."

"You don't have to come down here," she said quickly. "I was going to have someone call a cab."

"A cab?" he repeated.

"Chris damaged my car," she explained. "And my door and my phone and my window…"

"I'll be right there," he said again.

"Okay." She sniffed and said softly, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He clicked the phone and stood up. Diane was dead. But Sarah Mackenzie was not.


	7. 7

Coffee sloshed over the rim of the cups and puddled in the saucers as the waitress set down their drinks and left. Mac slipped a folded napkin under her cup and watched as the slowly stained the paper brown. She sighed and leaned her head against her palm. "Thank you for picking me up," she said softly.

He waved the 'thank you' away and picked up his own cup, wincing at the bitter taste of cheap coffee. "What happened?"

She shrugged a shoulder. "Same thing that always happens when he comes to town. Chaos. Mayhem. Then he gets arrested and I get a reprieve."

"Sounds like fun," he said. He raised an eyebrow and set his cup down on the table. The cup left a ring on the Formica tabletop when he put it back in its saucer. He ran his fingers around the liquid ring, joining its arcs and segments to make it whole.

"Oh," she said, "believe me, it is. At least its never tedious." She leaned back against the seat of the booth and exhaled noisily. Brushing her bangs out of her eyes, she said, "You know what? I'm tired of talking about this. We need a new topic."

"Okay," he drew the word out slowly.

"Why did you call earlier? When I was at the station?"

"To ask you to dinner," he answered. He glanced around the diner. A counter edged in chrome and lined with vinyl covered chairs fronted the restaurant, ending in a bakery display case. The booths were upholstered in matching pale green vinyl, cracked in some places, torn in others. Waiters and waitresses passed quickly through double doors that lead to the kitchen. The left side of the dining room was thick and blue with smoke and he was fairly certain he would never be able to get the smell of cigarettes and fried food out of his clothes. "This wasn't what I had in mind."

She smiled and flinched as the motion pulled on a cut on her lip. "Be nice," she chided, pressing a finger lightly to her mouth. "This place makes the world's best diner omelets."

"Diner omelets?"

She shrugged. "Even I'm not that big of a philistine to say there's no difference between a diner omelet and one from a four star restaurant." She smiled again, carefully this time. "So what was the occasion?"

"Occasion?" He was beginning to feel like a parrot.

"For dinner?" she prompted. Taking a sip of her coffee, she made a face at the tasted. "Clearly not the best diner coffee, though." She shook a sugar packet. Her spoon clinked dully against the thick sides of the mug.

"Maybe I just like your face," he smiled. She raised an eyebrow and he shrugged. "I wanted to talk to you."

"What about?" She sipped her coffee cautiously, frowning at the mug. She opened a half and half creamer and stirred it in. The cream blanched the coffee and she stared at it, wondering if she should paint her kitchen that color. She sighed into her mug, her breath made rings on the surface of the liquid. Her house was a mess. Chris had broken windows this time. Her orderly kitchen was covered in utensils and the walls were damaged, too. It would take her a full day to pick everything up again, longer to repair the doors and windows.

"I got a call from the General in D.C." His voice interrupted her laundry list of chores.

"Oh." She wrapped cold hands around the walls of the coffee cup. "When do you go back?"

"A few weeks." A car's headlight flashed in the window and blinked against the glare. Teenagers spilled out of the car in a laughing, noisy group and stumbled up the outside staircase. The bell over the door chimed and he watched as the hostess hid them in a corner of the smoking section. "They're sending a replacement, but he's been delayed with a big trial."

"Oh," she repeated. Pulling her hands into her lap, she sat up straight, pressing her shoulder blades into the padded seat. The light caught on her ring and she twisted it slightly, watching it reflect onto the edge of the table. "You must miss your family," she said quietly. "Assignments always seem so long at the end." She bit her lip and tried to not to think about how it wouldn't matter how long her assignments were anymore, there was no one waiting for her to return.

The waitress approached with their dinners and he leaned back so she could put the food down. "Bacon and cheese omelet?"

Mac raised her hand and murmured her thanks as the waitress put the plate down with a slight thump. Harm swallowed a comment about Mac's arteries as the waitress said, "Caesar salad must be for you." She set a large bowl in front of him. "Can I get you two anything else?"

They shook their heads and the waitress disappeared to another table, whisking away the tray and its metal stand. He poked at the lettuce with his fork and Mac asked, "Do you?"

"Do I what?" He looked up at her.

"Miss your family?" She clarified.

"My mother and step-father live in California, La Jolla." She whistled and he nodded. "Yeah. My grandmother lives in western Pennsylvania, so I see her every once in a while, but I don't have family in Washington."

"Still," she said, "you've been there for a while."

He nodded again. "I have a lot of close friends, some are like family to me."

"A girlfriend?" She tucked one leg beneath the other and concentrated on her omelet.

"There's," he shrugged, "there's one woman I was dating. It was casual. She was helping me out with something."

"With what?" She looked at him through her bangs.

"A personal matter. It was no big deal. It didn't work out the way I wanted, but." He shrugged again. She turned her attention back to her omelet and he watched her reflection in the window. They looked different in the window. Like two people who were getting to know each other instead of two people trying desperately not to reveal personal information. He debated, for a minute, whether to tell her about Mattie. To tell her about the young girl who was being shuffled from family member to family member and resenting him more with each passing day because he made a promise he would never be able to keep. Mattie's father was slowly gaining control over his life and it was only a matter of time before the court declared him competent as a parent. And then, Mattie would be forced to go back to a man she hated and she would start to hate him, too. So, really, there was no point in telling Mac about her because soon there would be no Mattie to talk about.

"You must miss her," her voice was soft. He glanced over to find her watching him, her hand cupped in her chin.

"Who?"

She smiled softly. "You're girlfriend?"

"I wasn't." He stopped. "I was lost in thought. She's not my girlfriend."

"You looked sad." She took a sip of her coffee. "Is everything okay?" She rested her hand on the tabletop, inching her fingers closer to his hand and then pulling them away. She flexed her hand and laid it flat on the Formica.

"It's nothing." He shook his head.

"If you want to talk," she offered. She hitched a shoulder and said, "It's just that you've been listening to me go on about me for a while. I thought I could return the favor."

"Not much to tell." He signaled the waitress for their check. Waving at the plates, he asked, "Did you want dessert?"

"No, thanks." She sighed over her coffee. Her back hurt and the corner of her mouth stung and she tried to tell herself that that was what was bothering her. It wasn't his refusal to talk or the sudden end to the night. It was a sore back and hours of work ahead of her. It was a messed up kitchen and slashed car tires that made her want to cry. Not some man she barely knew.

"How about I get you home?" He held out his hand and she slipped hers into his.

"Sounds good." She lied and slipped out of the both.

"So what are you up to tomorrow?" The humid air was chilly after the diner. He rubbed a hand down his arm. Gravel and sand crunched beneath their feet as he guided her across the parking lot. Unlocking her door, he waited until she was in the car and shut the door before she could respond. She leaned across the seats and unlocked his door for him.

"Cleaning," she breathed word out in a disappointed sigh. "My house is such a mess. I have to buy a window and door, too."

His hand froze over the gearshift. "He broke your window?"

"By the kitchen," she said. "He threw a vase through it."

"What happened to your door?" He let the car stay in park.

"Back door," she clarified. "He broke the glass in it so he could get in. My neighbors are keeping an eye on it for me. One of them was nailing some boards over them."

"You can't stay there tonight."

She raised an eyebrow. "I have nowhere else to go."

"You can stay at my place."

She opened her mouth, but couldn't make any sounds. "Don't you think it's a little early for this?"

"Mac," he said slowly, "I'll sleep on the couch."

She rested her head against the seat. "I'll be fine at my house."

"Fine, I'll sleep on the couch there."

Closing her eyes, she rubbed a hand over her forehead. "I'm not going to win this argument, am I?"

"No."

"I'll take the couch," she said. "I just to pack some things and then I'll be ready to go."

"Good." He said and put the car in drive. The headlights lit up the palm trees lining the diner's parking lot.


	8. 8

AN: I'm so sorry for the lateness of this. For those of you still interested and still reading, thank you for sticking by me.

Her key ring jingled as she slid her house key into the lock. Bowing her head, she let her hair fall across her face and closed her eyes. She paused, her hand flat on the door, and took a deep breath to brace herself against the destruction inside and the shadow at her back. She didn't want him here. She didn't want him hovering behind her, watching the street as if Chris could stroll down the street at any moment. She told him that Chris didn't work like that. He'd wait until he was only a ghost in her mind before he resurfaced. It was embarrassing to show him, to show anyone, what her past looked like and the mess it created.

Harm could see the shudder as it rippled over her muscles. Her fingers shook on the handle before she tightened her grip and pushed down. She had asked him to wait in the car for her, but he wouldn't. Her jaw had tightened, but she hadn't said anything. She hadn't even told him that could take of herself. Instead, she had looked out the window and folded her arms across her chest and said nothing. He hadn't known her long, but he knew her well enough to know that wasn't good.

"Please," she said quietly, her words bouncing off the door, "wait out here. I'll just be a moment." She raised her head and brushed her bangs back.

He shook his head and she turned around on a huff. "It's not as if he's in there," she waved at the door, "waiting for me. He's in jail."

"Mac."

"Harm." She resisted the urge to stomp her foot. She stared at him and then threw her hands up. "Fine." She pushed the door open and blinked in the dark. Plywood covered the kitchen windows and door. Her hand groped along the wall for the light switch and she nearly screamed in frustration when the lights came on. She had forgotten about the mess in the living room. Books that had been in neat piles and boxes were scattered around the room.

"He did all this?" Harm righted the coffee table and set a book down on it.

She nodded, pressing her lips together and hugging her stomach. "His temper." Her voiced cracked a little and she cleared her throat. "His temper's gotten a lot worse in recent years."

He crossed the room and rubbed a hand down her arm. "You okay?"

She leaned into his hand and shook her head a little. "Mmhm. Just – just give me a minute."

He soothed his palm down her spine. "Take all the time you need."

She sniffed and straightened. Walking towards the kitchen, she paused on its threshold. "Don't go in there." She nodded into the room. "There's glass everywhere."

He could see it. It littered the floor and the walls were nicked in places. The table was crooked and two of the chairs were on their sides. The neighbor who had nailed the sheets of plywood over her windows had tried to sweep some of it up. A trashcan sat in the middle of the room, half-filled.

"I have so much work to do tomorrow." She wanted to lean back against him and let him support her, so, instead, she leaned against the doorframe and rested her head on the wood. "He threw my coffee cup at the wall." She waved at a large stain between the door and the window. "He thought I wasn't listening to him."

"I can help," he offered, mimicking her pose on the other side of the doorway.

She smiled a little. "Thanks." She combed her fingers through her hair and rested her hand on her chin. "I'll let you know if I need it." She stared at the stain on the wall. "Maybe I'll repaint."

"I can help with that too," he said.

She chuckled half-heartedly and said, "Thanks," again. She pushed her body away from the door and stepped carefully into the glass-covered room. Pieces caught the light and refracted, winking up at her as she skirted most of the damage. The diamond-bright slivers were almost pretty when the light angled over them. She picked up some of the larger chunks and tossed them into the trashcan, dusting her hands on her jeans.

"Did he leave you any glasses?"

"Yes." She put her hands on her hips and turned. Glass crackled under feet and the sounds were loud in the quiet kitchen. "These were vases that John bought me one year." She shrugged and pulled on a corner of the table until it was centered. Turning a chair over, she sat down and hooked her chin over its back.

"How did he know…" He let the question trail away.

"That John gave them to me?" When he nodded, she explained, "John found them when he was unpacking and shipped them back here. They were still in the box with the address on it." She turned her head so she could see him. "I always hated them." She smiled sadly. "John had the worst taste."

He pulled a chair out from the table and sat down next to her. "Not in women," he said before he could himself. Angry for his slip, he chastised himself for flirting while she was sitting the middle of broken pieces of her life. He winced and smiled, hoping she wouldn't get upset by the comment.

She didn't yell. Instead she gave him a baleful look and said, "Most especially in women." She fell back against the chair. "I ruined his career. He had to put up with Chris reappearing, destroying everything, and then disappearing." She ticked the list off on her fingers.

"I didn't mean…"

She raised a hand and waved off his apology. "I know," she said on a sigh. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to jump down your throat." She stood up. "I'll go pack."

"Take your time."

She brushed a hand over his shoulder as she walked by him. He caught it and held it. Bending down, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered against the shell of his ear, "for everything." She squeezed his shoulder again and left the room.

"Most especially in women," he told the empty room quietly.

He wondered about the kitchen the whole ride back to his apartment. He thought about the glass on the floor and the up-ended chairs. He puzzled over the crooked kitchen table, but he stayed silent, hoping she would bring it up.

He didn't say anything when she repeated the litany of charges pending against Chris. He bit the inside of his cheek when he heard assault listed as one of them. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and nodded, adding comments only when she asked for advice. But the words erupted from him, hot and angry, when she winced after he put his hand on her back to guide her into the apartment.

He yanked a cabinet open, put two aspirins in her hand, and shoved a glass of water in the other. "What did he do?" The cabinet door banged shut and she jumped a little. Water sloshed over the rim of her glass and onto her hand. She swallowed the aspirins, shaking her head to ease them down.

"I told you." She took a sip of water.

"Why is your back sore?"

She sat down on the couch and stared at the glass in her hands. He took it from her and placed it on the table. "It's a long story," she exhaled slowly.

"What did he do?" he asked again, quietly this time.

She buried her face in her hands and spoke between her fingers. "I was trying to stop him from breaking those ugly vases." Her breath hitched and she caught it. "God, I hated those vases. There were six of them. Cut glass and heavy and old-fashioned. But John was so proud of them. He found them at this antique store." She shook her head and took another deep breath. "Anyway, Christ was about to throw one out through the window. I tried to stop him and he threw me into the table. I tripped, hit the corner, and brought down a chair. And he," her voiced broke, "threw the stupid vase through the window."

"Mac," he started, but she interrupted, "Please don't say you're sorry for me. Really, please don't." She rubbed a finger over her eyebrow. "I really don't want someone else to feel sorry for me."

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. She angled her head until it rested at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and sighed. He kissed her hair lightly and mumbled, "Alright." He whispered, "But I am."

She curled a hand over the fabric of his shirt. Running her thumb over the cuff of his sleeve, she sighed and nodded. "Thank you," she whispered back.

It rained that night. The wind changed directions and chased the humidity away for the morning. Dust snaked across the parking lot and the marsh grasses bowed in the wake of the breeze. The humidity would come back. The wind would shift again and the sun would get a little warmer, but, for now, the air was almost chilly and the colors were a little brighter. Fog, already disappearing, ribbonned in and out of the grasses and hung low over the water. He opened the screen door quietly and stepped on to the concrete slab the complex advertised as a terrace. Taking a sip of coffee, he folded his body into one of the plastic chairs and blinked as the sun glared off car windows. He kicked his feet up on the small table on the balcony.

Mac was still asleep, her form lumpy and indistinct on the bed. They had fought over who would get the bed well past midnight, each wanted the other to have it. They had glared at each other over the linen-covered territory until she had thrown her hands up and suggested sharing it. That prompted another round of arguments. She won. Somewhere, between the awkward moment when they climbed into bed and the bright morning sunlight, she had stolen all the covers and he taken up most of the bed. He left her cocooned and clinging to the edge of the mattress.

He exhaled slowly over the surface of his coffee. The cherry trees would be blooming in Washington right now. The tidal basin would be ringed in pink blossoms and tourists crowding its rim. Here, the sun was getting stronger and the green was already losing its spring color. People were returning to the beaches and the water was getting warmer. He didn't miss Washington as much as he thought he would when he first got this assignment. He didn't think that he would be happy at a smaller base, with the slower style of the attorneys and the courts. He still missed parts of his old life. But it was washing away slowly, slipping out to sea on the tides, and it was going to be a struggle to pull it back when he returned. He had gotten used to the weather, the way the clouds rolled and soaked each afternoon. He had gotten used to seeing the woman who had just fallen out of his bed with a loud thump and a curse.

"Mac?" he called through the screen door. "You okay?"

She shuffled into the family room rubbing her backside. "Yes," she muttered. "Coffee?" she asked, seeing his mug.

"In the kitchen." He resisted the temptation to make air quotes.

"Bless you," she said when she joined him on the balcony. She squinted and pulled the other chair back until she was in the shadows. "This isn't bad," she commented.

"The coffee or the view?" He raised an eyebrow.

She stuck her tongue out. "All of it." She tucked her ankle beneath her other leg and swung her free foot back and forth. "From the way you've been describing this place, I figured it was one step up from the brig."

"Cinderblock," he muttered into his mug.

"I'm not saying I'd like to make it a summer home. I just thought it would be worse."

He watched the grass ripple under the wind and thought of the view from his apartment in Washington. "No, it's not that bad."

She blew on her coffee and studied the hard blue of the sky. "Beautiful morning." She glanced over at him. Sometimes it seemed impossible to her that he was the same man that she had met nine years ago. His face, still one of the nicest she'd ever seen, was older and there were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before. His smile wasn't the same one she remembered and she wondered when it had disappeared. He wouldn't talk about his past; he barely talked about his life at home and nothing she said could get him to talk about himself. There were moments, little glimpses into his past, when he would mention something, but they short and disappeared quickly. And then there were moments like these: when she didn't care about his past or her past and it was okay just sit here and let the sun warm her legs.

"It is," he agreed, squinting into the sun. "Do you have any plans for the day?"

"Oh," she stretched an arm to the balcony above them and snuck a grin around her bicep, "I thought I'd do a little spring cleaning. What about you, do you have plans?"

"I'm helping you?" he suggested.

She lowered her arm and stretched the other. "You already did," she told him. "Thank you for rescuing me."

He shrugged her comment off. "It's what I'm here for."

She smiled and winked at him over her mug. "In that case, I may have to start getting into trouble more often."


	9. 9

9

Her favorite place in the world was the small, screened-in porch at the back of her house. In the summer, when the wind shifted in the right direction, she could smell the ocean and suntan lotion. At night, tinny carousel music tinkled over the lawn and the clacks of the old wooden roller coaster on the boardwalk rumbled across her porch. Some days, she could almost smell funnel cake and pizza.

Her ceiling fan, something she always wanted but John had hated and with Chris she had been too broke and too steeped in an alcoholic daze to remember, spun in lazy circles. She pressed a glass of iced tea against his arm and smiled slightly when he jumped. "Sorry," she handed him the glass. "Thank you for all of your help this past week."

He waved away the thanks and settled back against the glider. "Not a problem."

She sat down next to him and tucked one leg beneath the other. "Still," she persisted, "I hardly think it's how you wanted to spend one of your last weeks here."

Through the screen, he eyed the new door and window that he'd installed. "I told you I would help," he reminded her.

Her smile grew wider. "Harm, this went so far and above the definition of help."

He shrugged and a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth and she curled her hands around her glass to keep them off his face. "I'm a sucker for a damsel in distress."

She raised her eyebrows. "I believed you've mentioned something like that before." She sipped her iced tea. "So, just how many damsels have you rescued?"

He tipped his head back and studied the fan blades. "Hmm," he murmured. "I'd have to think."

"That many, huh?"

"It comes with the job."

"I hadn't realized." Her fingers trailed over the filigree on the glider's arm and she stared out over her lawn. When she and John bought the house, Mac had fallen in love with the backyard. She could see the swing sets and sandboxes and the toys scattered on the grass. She imagined nights like this one, where the sky was fading to a quiet blue and the noises from the boardwalk were faint. Fireflies flickered in the flowers and the breeze was almost cool and soft. She saw children running over the grass in bare feet, chasing lightening bugs and putting them in paper cups with grass and hole-poked cellophane lids. Every year, when she didn't really get to see those scenes, she dug up more of the grass and planted more flowers and shrubs. In the summer, now, her backyard was filled with azaleas and birds of paradise, delphiniums and day lilies. There were birdhouses instead of clubhouses and gazing balls to replace the kickballs she once wanted.

He touched her wrist lightly and she smiled at him. "Do you have to get going?" she asked.

"Actually," he said, "I was wondering where you'd gone?"

She shook her head and sighed, "Nowhere. My mind just wandered a little."

His fingers traced the veins in her wrist and she wanted to shudder. "It's nice out here," he said quietly.

"Yeah," she breathed out. "It is." She brushed a strand of her hair out of her eye and blinked as the fan blew it back across her cheek. "I love this porch. I know it's dumb, but I'm glad Chris didn't destroy it. I don't think I could have taken it."

"It doesn't sound dumb. It's understandable." He pushed against the tiles on the floor and the glider slid back and forth, quickly at first, then settling into a slow rock.

"You're like an anchor," she laughed, as his feet dragged along the floor. She patted his thigh and motioned him to swing his legs on to her lap.

"Hey," he said, "I cannot help it if I was blessed with great height." He crossed his ankles and propped his feet on the arm of the chair. Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the other arm. "Yeah, this is nice," he repeated.

She leaned her elbow on the back of the chair and pushed against the floor with her toe. "Harm?" she asked quietly.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He opened one eye. "Go ahead."

She bit her lip and stared at the screen door. The sky was mostly dark now and the lights from the house stretched across the porch floor. Shaking her head, she said, "Never mind. It wasn't important." She concentrated on the weight of his legs on hers and the slow movement of the glider and she repeated, "Never mind."

He cracked an eye open again. "It's never a good sign when a woman says that twice."

She grinned, "Really?"

"Really," he affirmed. "I have learned that much in my forty years on the planet."

Her glass hovered over his shin and she asked, "And what else have you learned?"

A drop of water splashed on to his leg and he said, "Never to piss off a woman when she's armed with a cold glass."

"Smart man."

"And quick, too." He grabbed the glass from her and set it on the floor next to his. "Now, what were you going to ask?" He swung his legs off her lap and sat up.

"Who do I - " she stopped and took a deep breath. "Who do I remind you of?"

He stared at her face and she wondered whom he saw. "No one," he said quietly. "You remind me of you."

"The first time you saw me…"

"Lt. Diane Schonke," he told her. "We went to the Academy together."

"Were you - " She stuttered. "Were you in love with her?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. I guess I was. I thought I was. So much has happened since then. Everything just kind of got lost in the shuffle."

Her breath hitched and she forced it out slowly. "What happened to her?" She wished she still had her glass - that it wasn't sitting next to his on the floor. She wished she could drink something stronger than iced tea. It wasn't fair and she knew it, but she still had to ask.

He opened his mouth and took a deep breath, but didn't say anything. In the distance, the roller coaster clicked up the wooden hill for its first run of the night and whooshed down the other side. Crickets and tree frogs chirped in her yard and the fan stirred the air around the porch.

"Harm?" She touched his arm lightly.

"She was killed," he said quickly, "Shot."

"Oh God," she said quietly. Her fingers tightened on his arm. "Oh, God. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to …" She stopped. Because she had meant to. She'd meant to bring up the woman who stood between them and took her place beside John and Chris. She was getting tired of the invisible fence that sat between them.

"It's okay." He patted her hand then pried it loose. "It's getting late." He stood up. "I should go."

"But-" She stood, too. "I'll walk you out."

He shook his head. "You don't have to."

She paused at the screen door. When he was at the gate, she said, "Good night."

"Night." The gate banged shut behind him and then a real fence separated them. She closed the door softly and turned off the fan. She stood at the edge of her porch and hugged her arms across her chest. The fireflies flickered in the irises and her grass was a soft green. The roller coaster rumbled up the hill again and a neighbor's sprinkler turned on. She heard his car start and she picked up the glasses and went inside to close the windows and turn on the air-conditioner. She had had enough of the outdoors.


	10. 10

10

The court clerk stood and announced, "All rise." The courtroom surged to its feet as the Honorable Emmett Wilson stepped on to the bench.

"Be seated," the judge waved at the courtroom. "All right," the judge glanced down at the papers on his desk, "before we bring the jury in, are there any pre-trial matters that we still have to resolve?" He gaze shifted between the prosecutor and the defense attorney.

Chris's lawyer stood and smoothed his tie down his chest. "I believe we took care of them yesterday, Your Honor." He glanced at the prosecutor, who nodded his confirmation.

The judge shuffled the stack of papers and asked, "So are you ready to have the jury brought in?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"Yes."

Mac stood and tugged at the hemline of her skirt as the jury filed into the jury box. Her hand brushed against Harm's and he curled his fingers around hers and squeezed them a little. She smiled up at him, before studying the jurors' faces. She understood, now, why people thought the courtroom was such a daunting place and she had advantages normal witnesses and victims did not have; she knew the trial would be short. Unless Chris decided to testify, she and the officer were the only witnesses. She knew what the court could do and what it couldn't do. But, as she sat down and listened to the opening statements, she couldn't help wish that it were tomorrow and this was only a memory.

Chris focused his attention on the judge, but she knew he knew where she was. She knew he hated her; she could feel it in the audience. Waves of anger and resentment flowed over the courtroom and she couldn't help but wonder if the jurors could feel it, too. His head turned and their eyes met, as the officer who arrested him walked into the courtroom, and he stared at her. He smiled, briefly, the corners of his mouth turning upwards slowly and she tried not to remember when things weren't so bad. She tried not to remember the motorcycle rides through the desert or the first time she saw him leaning against his bike. She tried not to think about how it felt when she walked out the front door of her father's house, her clothes in a suitcase beside her, and never went home again. She swallowed the memories until she couldn't feel the hard desert sun and the steady vibration of the motorcycle. Harm's fingers tightened around her hand and she looked up at him, grateful for the reminder of when she was.

The prosecutor paced across the courtroom. "What did you see when you arrived at the house?" he asked the officer.

The officer shifted on the witness stand and answered, "When I arrived at the scene, there were two cars in front of the house. One, registered to Sarah Mackenzie, was in the driveway, closer to the garage. The other, which came back as a rental, was parked by the curb." He held up his hands at angle to each other. "Sort of half on the grass and half on the street. I could hear shouting coming from the house."

Harm's finger tapped against his leg as he listened to the prosecutor run through the officer's testimony. He ticked off each question and tried not to think about how he would have done asked it differently. He tried not to think about questions the defense attorney could ask on cross-examination, too. Studying Mac out of the corner of his eye, he could tell she was doing the same thing.

"Can you tell us what Ms. Mackenzie's demeanor was when she opened the door?" The prosecutor asked.

"She was upset," the police officer told the jury. "Visibly shaken. She was holding her hand and I could see that her wrist was red and slightly swollen."

"Was she alone?" The prosecutor glanced at the jury and put his hands in his pockets.

"No, sir." The officer shook his head. "A man walked out of the kitchen as soon as she let me and Officer Trouth into the house."

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Objection," the defense attorney stood. "It's hearsay, Your Honor."

"Mr. Prosecutor?"

"Statement against interest, Your Honor. It's one of the exceptions." The prosecutor shook his head as the defense attorney opened his mouth again and said, "Never mind, judge. I'll withdraw it."

"Do you see that man here today?"

"I do." The officer nodded. "He's sitting at that table there, sir."

The prosecutor said, "Let the record reflect that the officer has identified the defendant."

"So noted," Judge Wilson said.

"What did you see in the house?"

"The kitchen was a mess. There was damage to a door and a window in the back. There was a lot of glass on the floor. The kitchen table was at an odd angle and there was chair on its side."

"Did Ms. Mackenzie tell you what happened?"

"Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay."

"Sustained."

"Did you have a conversation with Ms. Mackenzie?" The prosecutor turned a page on his notepad and glanced at it.

"I did."

"What actions, if any, did you take as a result of the conversation?"

"I placed Mr. Ragle under arrest and read him his Miranda rights."

"The State calls Sarah Mackenzie to the stand." Mac pulled her hand away from Harm's reluctantly and walked to the witness stand. She tried to smile at the prosecutor as he started asking her basic background questions. He glossed over her career and her position at JAG. Slowly, he began to focus on her relationship with Chris and the early years of her marriage. He had warned her that he would ask about it, if only to prevent the defense attorney from using it to impeach her testimony. But he also needed to establish a motive for Chris's behavior. She answered him as best as she could, but she found, with relief, that the details were starting to slip from her mind. In a few hours, she realized, she would be free from the man who had haunted her adult life and she would never have to remember the past again.

"What happened on that Saturday afternoon?" the prosecutor began to focus on the incident.

"I was home by myself." She chewed on her bottom lip. "Chris had been calling all day and finally I turned off the phone. I was in my living room when I heard something in the kitchen. It sounded like a window breaking. So I went to go see what had happened. Chris was opening the door. He had his hand through the window on my door and was turning the lock."

"Then what happened?"

"He seemed really angry," she told the jury. "He started yelling at me and I told him to get out. He started to throw things. He threw this set of vases that my ex-husband had given me. One of them went through the kitchen window."

"Did he threaten you at all?"

She nodded. "Yes." She twisted her ring around her finger and her foot bounced nervously against the floor. "He said he wouldn't let me go."

"Then what did you do?"

"I tried to leave, but he grabbed my arm and threw me against the kitchen table. I fell and hit my wrist on the chair. That's when the police came."

"Did you call the police?"

She shook her head. "No, I tried, but he pulled the phone out of the wall."

The cross-examination was short and she tried not to flinch each time the defense attorney poked a hole in her testimony. She sank onto her seat with a grateful sigh when she was allowed to step down. Harm ran a hand down her back and she resisted the urge to lean on his shoulder.

The jury did not deliberate long. Forty-five minutes after they were dismissed, they were filing back into the courtroom. "Members of the jury," Judge Wilson polled them, "have you reached a verdict?"

"We have," the foreman announced.

"And is it unanimous?"

"Yes."

"On count one, felony burglary, how do you find?"

"We find the defendant guilty, Your Honor."

"On count two, battery and assault?"

"Guilty."

"Members of the jury, this concludes your service. Thank you for your time." Judge Wilson dismissed the jury.

Mac pressed her hands against her mouth and sighed. She said good-bye to the motorcycles and the high desert winds as the sheriff's officers led Chris away in handcuffs.

"What do you say we get out of here?" Harm asked.

"Lead the way."

Outside the courthouse, the air was heavy and the sun was sinking below the trees and buildings. She turned to Harm and said, "Thank you – for staying through this."

"I wouldn't be anywhere else," he told her.

She glanced at the horizon and sighed, brushing her bangs off her face. "I didn't think it would be that hard," she said quietly. She shrugged and began walking down the steps.

"Mac, I - " He stopped, unsure of what he was going to say. Unsure of what he wanted to offer.

"What time is your flight?" She pretended not to notice his hesitancy.

"Eight." He followed her down the steps.

She looked over her shoulder and one side of her mouth pulled into a half-smile. "We should get going. Traffic is going to be bad."

The ride to the airport was quiet, the radio a low hum over the air-conditioner. He stared out the window, watching offices and houses cede ground to industrial parks and car rental agencies. The grass grew rougher and stubbly and the trees became sparser. Beside him, Mac shifted gears and eased into the exit lane. "Thank you for the ride," he said, breaking the silence.

"It's the least I could do." A jet rumbled down a runway and took off, its wheels folding beneath its body as it disappeared. "Are you going to be swamped when you get back?" she asked in a low voice.

He half-shrugged. "It sounds like it." He sighed and stretched a leg out in front of him. "We were pretty short-handed before I left."

She flicked on her turn signal and glanced over her shoulder. "I know the feeling."

"Yeah," he said with a cocky grin, "but you're all caught up now."

"Feeling pretty good about yourself, Commander?"

He rested an elbow on the door. "I'm just happy I could help."

She snorted and bit the corners of her lips to keep from smiling. "Which terminal are you?"

He studied the signs. "That one," he pointed.

She nodded and pulled to the curb. "Thank you again," she turned to face him, "for staying for this."

His hand lifted and he brushed a strand of hair away from her face. "I told you I would."

"I know," she nodded again, biting her lower lip, "but you didn't have to, so thank you."

He opened the door and swung his legs out of the car.

"It's going to be weird at the office tomorrow," she said. She followed him to her trunk and shifted the keys from one hand to the other. "When you're not there," she clarified.

He pulled a suit case out of the trunk and set it on the ground. "It's going to be strange for me, too." He grabbed the handle of his suit bag. "I think I've forgotten what my office looks like."

Tucking her hair behind her ear, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts and studied the pavement beneath her shoes. A bus lumbered past them and the wind teased the edge of her skirt. "So," she took a deep breath, "I guess this is good-bye again."

He stuck his hands in his pockets and nodded. "I guess it is."

"It was good seeing you again," she said. Her car keys bit into her hand as she tightened her fingers around them.

"You, too."

She uncurled her arms and stepped forward and he pulled her into a hug. She raised herself onto her toes and hooked her chin over his shoulder. "Take care," she whispered against his ear. She drew back and bussed her lips lightly over his cheek. He shifted slightly, so their mouths drew even, and kissed her. Cars and buses drove past them, blowing the hot, heavy air and sand against their legs. She pulled away and kissed him once more, lightly, before stepping back.

Later that night, when he boarded the plane, he would carry his briefcase and memory of Sarah Mackenzie's mouth against his with him. And Diane's ghost would hover at his elbow, wailing about how he had forgotten her until his guilt was as thick and heavy as the air.


	11. 11

A pile of papers sat by his elbow in a disorganized mess that he had no interest in organizing. Motions and briefs and files were jumbled together with phone messages and intra-office memos. Somewhere, beneath the papers and the discarded pens, his desk calendar was crowded with court dates and client interviews.

Harm rubbed his hand over his forehead and sighed, his breath fluttering the edges of his legal pad. He tapped his pen against the paper and stared the screensaver on his computer screen. The colors swirled and blended together, and, for a minute, he was tempted to check his email account to see if anyone had emailed him since the last time he'd checked. But, he pulled his hand back and the colors continued to swirl and blend.

He tossed his pen onto his desk and leaned back into his chair, angling his body to face the windows. The sun was on the other side of the building now and the shadows were long and dark green on the ground. Clouds, tall and gray, were building on the horizon; a storm would come later that afternoon, drenching commuters as they rushed to their cars or the metro stations. The sidewalks would flood and the gutters on his building would sputter and gurgle in the rain. But for now, the air was thick and hot and moisture gathered at the bottom of his window where the air-conditioner blew a steady stream of cold air against the glass.

Harm steepled his fingers and rested his head against the back of his chair. He hadn't heard from Mac – not really, not in a way that counted – since he'd left. He'd called, once, to let her know that he was back in Washington. They had talked for a few minutes, but silence had seeped across the hundreds of miles until the words were thin and uncomfortable. They both had sounded relieved when they ended the call. She'd called a few days later, but the call was rushed. His keys were in his hand and Blacksburg was on his mind. So he had ended the call, intending to call her back. And then his phone grew quiet. Mattie called and Bud and Harriet called, but Florida never appeared on the caller id again and he never picked up the phone either.

Days passed and the weeks slid into each other until the months changed on the calendar. He hadn't meant for it to happen. But, somehow, the silence between them had stretched it until it was as wide as a river and nearly as deep. He began to wonder if it was better that he hadn't heard from her. Maybe he hadn't been waiting to hear from Mac, maybe it was Diane and he would never hear from her again.

But there were moments, little pauses in time, like when he stood by his car as he left work in the evenings and he could remember the heat of the asphalt and the sharp wind from passing car and the lingering smell of her perfume beneath the heavier exhaust fumes, where he knew he was lying to himself. He knew he missed Mac and Diane had become an excuse.

The phone rang and he reached across the desk. "Rabb."

"Hi," The voice surprised him and he frowned at the phone. "It's Mac."

"I recognize your voice, you know." He leaned forward and picked up his pen and began to twirl it. "How are you?"

"Good," she said. "How are you?"

"Good." He clicked his pen once, then clicked it again. "Busy," he amended, surveying his desk.

"Should I call back?"

"No." He dropped the pen and sat up straight. "I can talk. What's up?"

"Um," she paused. "Actually, I'm coming up to Washington."

"Really?" He pushed his notepad and papers to the side of the desk. They teetered on the edge and he smacked a hand down to steady the pile. "When?" He glanced at the calendar. "Why?"

She laughed softly. "Yes. In a few weeks. I have an interview with the DOJ."

"A job interview?"

Mac sighed softly into the receiver and he tried to imagine her face. "Yes. I'm resigning my commission." She sighed again and he saw her staring out her office window. He wondered if it would rain there that afternoon, too. He tried to picture the clouds stretching from Virginia to Florida. "I told you about it, remember?"

"I just didn't realize you mean now." He ran a hand through his hair.

"Oh," she drew the word out, soft and long. "Maybe I should have been more specific?"

He shrugged, even though he knew she couldn't see him. "Why are you leaving the corps?"

She inhaled sharply and breathed out slowly. "The JAG," she said, "General Cresswell?"

He glanced into the bullpen. Sturgis and Bud were arguing loudly about a case and Jen hovered at the edge of the argument, a stack of files in her hand and shooting nervous glances towards the General's office. "What about him?"

"He was good friends with John," she told him. "He came to our wedding, too."

"But still," he began.

"Harm," she half-laughed, interrupting him. "The paperwork's been in for over a month. It was just time."

"So," he switched the subject. "You're going to be an AUSA?"

"That's the plan," she said. "Of course, I'm still studying for the Florida bar in case that plan doesn't quite work out. Anyway, the interview is up there in a couple of weeks. So, since I was going to be up there, I was wondering," she trailed off.

"Have dinner with me?" he asked.

She laughed. "I was going to ask you that."

"When is your flight?" He rested his elbows on his desk and studied his schedule.

"A week from Tuesday," she said. "Is that okay?"

He circled the date with his pen. "It's fine. How long will you be in town?"

"I catch the red-eye out the next morning," she told him. "I couldn't afford to take any more leave."

He tapped his pen against Wednesday. "Do you need a ride?"

"No, not from the airport, anyway. But maybe…"

"A ride to the airport?" he finished her sentence.

"I can catch a cab," she said quickly.

"I can give you a lift."

"Harm, you don't have to."

"I want to," he said softly.

Her breath expelled in a soft puff against the receiver. "Thank you," she said quietly. "I guess airports are going to be our thing, huh?"

He smiled against the phone. "Not if you move up here." He added quickly, hoping she hadn't heard him, "I'll see you in a week?"

"Yeah," she said, "one week."

He hung up the phone carefully and thought about the clouds that stretched all the way to Florida and how the distance wasn't really that large after all.


End file.
